


Dawn

by sevenofspade



Category: Sympathy for the Devil (Rolling Stones Song)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 18:01:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4069399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenofspade/pseuds/sevenofspade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lenore just wants a quiet drink. Things don't go as planned. (Do they ever?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dawn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spiderfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderfire/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this!

There's this rundown old gin joint on the corner of 99th and 23rd that looks completely out of place there. It looks like it belongs at the bottom of a dark alley, not at the intersection of two of the city's busiest streets.

The doorman's an old acquaintance. I'd call him a friend if I had any of those. There's a test of some sort costumers go through to come in, but me? I've never passed it. Doorman just waves me through. Not sure why. I hesitate to ask.

No point in look gift horses in the mouth and all that.

Once you're through the door and you've finished coughing up your lungs from the smell of opium -- don't ask me why the place smells like an opium den, because no one smokes in there, not tobacco, not opium, not weed, nothing -- it looks like it's been in business since the Prohibition and the furnishings haven't changed once since then. There's an uncertain quality to the light, like it too has come right from the 1920s and isn't quite sure what to do with itself in the here and now.

In the back, there's a table where you can get something to eat if you don't mind sharing.

I usually don't.

The person sitting at the table when I get there is not wearing shoes. I resist the urge to make a "no shoes, no shirt, no service" remark, as they are wearing a nice black shirt under their fancy white suit. They also look to be composed entirely of cheekbones.

"You're Lenore Carey." And here it comes, that's the voice, the "I am now going to say 'Nevermore' because no one has made that joke to you before" voice.

"That's Detective Carey to you," I say to Cheekbones. I'm not a real detective, not even a private eye, not by any stretch of the imagination.

Cheekbones just smiles and salutes me with a full glass of whisky. "Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"

"Thing of evil -- prophet still, if bird or devil!" I reply and roll my eyes. It might not be 'Nevermore', but it is still Poe's Raven and there is no variation of that joke I haven't heard before and this one has the bad taste of having my name in it. Subtlety is an art form on the decline. 

"Indeed," Cheekbones says and I notice there's no food on the table.

"You're not eating? Might as well get off the table, then." I gesture to Beatrice that I'll be having my usual over Cheekbones' shoulder.

"Maybe I'm here to talk to you."

"Well, I'm not here to talk to you. I'm here to eat. As the paying customer here, I'm going to ask you kindly to fuck off." A thing you should know about me: I have no fucks to give and I hate Poe. I have an entire friendship based solely on our mutual hatred of Poe -- her name is Madeline Usher. Mine is more famous, hers is worse.

Beatrice doesn't see me, so I turn around to make myself more visible. When she nods, I turn back and find Cheekbones eating an apple. The tumbler of whisky -- if it was even whisky -- is gone.

"You're not paying for that."

"I assure you I am." There's something sad in Cheekbones' eyes and voice, but I can't find it in myself to care.

I didn't know if it's possible to eat an apple suggestively, but Cheekbones is really going for it. I would wonder if getting to eat one meal without having to put up with bullshit like suggestive apple eating or aggressive Poe quoting or whatever is too much to ask for, but I know the answer to that question and it's not 42. 

Still, hope springs eternal and all that. "What do I have to do to get you to leave alone?"

"Guess my name," Cheekbones says.

"What?"

"Tell me my name and I'll leave if you still want me to," Cheekbones replies. There's not much left of the apple now.

"What are you, twelve? I've got better things to do."

"Oh no, I'm much older than that," Cheekbones says. "And I've got all day. Or night, as the case may be."

I squint. "You look sort of familiar. Are you famous?"

It would explain both why I feel like I've seen them before and why they seem to think I know their name. The other option is that we banged in my wild adolescence, but if I ever had one of those I don't remember it. As they say, that was in another country; and besides, the wench is dead.

"You can say that," Cheekbones says.

"Okay." I open my mouth to ask a question, then change my mind and my question to something else. Maybe I only have twenty questions, maybe I don't. Either way, asking will just set me back one question. (I am not expecting Cheekbones to behave gentlemanly and let me have that question for free.) "What are you famous for?"

"This might take a while," Cheekbones says and breathes out a mouthful of smoke. It doesn't smell like cigarette smoke; their hands are empty anyway. "Been around a long, long time, after all."

"Either put out or shut up and leave. And this better be good," I say as I grab my plate from Beatrice.

Cheekbones leans back in their chair and starts the story where all stories begin. "Once upon a time..."

I'm not really listening, because the food is as always divine and I'm focusing on that instead. I chow down and the words wash over me. Strangely enough, even though I know what Cheekbones is saying cannot be true, I don't get the feeling they're lying.

I do get the feeling they're not telling me the whole truth, though. The truth, yes, and nothing but the truth, also yes, but the whole truth? No.

Then the words catch up to me.

"You're..."

Cheekbones raises an eyebrow.

I take a deep breath. "Really not telling this story in the most efficient of ways. Do you mind skipping ahead? At this rate I will be done before you are."

Cheekbones' mouth twists into a hellish grimace, but the pace of the story does pick up. Soon the story is in Rome Empire.

Gethsemane. Rome. Byzantium. Novgorod. Constantinople.

One by one, civilisations fall and the tale is told. Oh, there are holes in the story -- more than once, Cheekbones stops and when the story starts again, an invisible helping hand has been there -- but none of it is a lie, except by omission, I suppose.

And then the story stops, sometime after the mid-20th century.

I finish my food and ask, "Is that it?"

"Yes."

"Who killed the Kennedys? If you're really who you say you are," I say and pretend not to notice that Cheekbones hasn't said who they are, "you should know."

"So should you." The words fall like a death sentence.

I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood, warm and coppery. I shift my grip on my knife, loosening my fingers and pushing my thumb forward. I feel like I'm about to stab Caesar. It's muscle memory talking.

I stare at Cheekbones. Cheekbones stares back at me.

The moment stretches on.

Beatrice picks up my empty plate and the frozen bubble of an infinitely stretched out moment collapses on itself before bursting.

"I've no idea what your name is," I say. It's a lie, of course, and not even a pretty one.

"Don't be like that," Cheekbones says. "Lil--"

"I don't know what game you're playing, but my name is Lenore," I say, biting off the words like they've personally offended me. I put the knife down before I do something I'll regret.

"You know exactly what game I'm playing. You can't not know." If it were anyone else, I would think Cheekbones' voice is shaking. But Cheekbones is who -- what -- Cheekbones is and soon the moment is gone. 

I get up and Cheekbones catches my hand. For the first time, I notice that Cheekbones' feet don't touch the floor and have to suppress a sneer. I really should have known better.

But I've always had more pride than sense. Or, rather no. That's Cheekbones' curse, not mine, but we walked away from the garden for the same reason.

Free will is the freedom to make mistakes.

"I don't know what game you're playing," I say and tug on my arm.

"The most dangerous game," Cheekbones replies with a smile like a snake's.

"I saw that movie. Doesn't end well for the hunter." Some part of me hopes Cheekbones hasn't seen the movie and I've just spoiled it for them. As revenges go, it's petty and small. I'll take what I can get.

Cheekbones sighs and looks away. "I need --"

"If the next word out of your mouth is 'you', your soul will be lifted from upon this floor nevermore, you dig?"

"I was going to say 'restraint'," Cheekbones says and raises an eyebrow.

"Sure you were. I wasn't born yesterday, you know." I pull on my arm again and this time my arm comes free.

"Oh, I know." Cheekbones sighs. "Until next time, then, I suppose." Cheekbones gets up and starts to leave.

Suddenly, I remember all the times we've done this, when Lucy -- or Louis or whatever brilliantly puny name Cheekbones had come up with that time, and I just _bet_ that this time around we have matching initials -- would ask this same thing and I would say no. I'm no daughter of Eve, but their mortal lives are pleasant to live.

I sigh, then mentally kick myself for showing Cheekbones this much weakness.

Ah, what the hell. This life's been getting boring for a while now. Say what you will about Cheekbones, but they're not boring.

"Hey," I say. Cheekbones stops, mid-track. "I didn't say your name."

Cheekbones turns around slowly. There's hope in the cast of their face, if you know how to look. I do; practice helped. 

Free will is the freedom to make mistakes and Cheekbones smiles like a rising sun.


End file.
